The Shadow in the Garage

  The flickering fluorescent light cast long, spidery shadows across the dusty workbench. The air was thick with the scent of oil and rust, the steady downpour outside hammering against the metal roof like a thousand impatient fingers. Rain lashed against the corrugated iron roof, a constant, rhythmic drumbeat that seemed to amplify the silence within.

  Elias exhaled slowly, his breath misting in the cold air, shivered as he reached for the old toolbox. He’d been meaning to clean out the garage for weeks, but the task always seemed to slip his mind. Now, with the storm raging outside, he felt a strange sense of unease, a prickle of fear he couldn’t explain.

  He hadn’t stepped foot in the garage for weeks. Not since the first time he’d heard something shift in the darkness when he passed by at night. A rat, probably. Nothing to worry about.

  He pushed the thought aside and knelt by the old toolbox, as he rummaged through the toolbox, his fingers tracing over chipped metal. He had barely lifted the lid when his hand grazed something.

  He brushed against something cold and metallic.

  Something smooth, nestled beneath a pile of tangled wires.

  It was taciturn. Not a tool.

  Frowning, he pulled it out—an antique silver locket, its surface intricately carved with symbols he didn’t recognize.

  A chilling sensation crept down his spine, as his stomach turned.

  Where the hell had this come from?

  He’d never seen the locket before, he has been down there before, but he was sure he’d never seen it before.

  A sharp clang echoed from the far side of the garage.

  Elias’s breath caught. He turned his head slowly toward the sound.

  Nothing.

  Just the relentless drumming of the rain. The same cluttered mess—old car parts, rusted shelves sagging under paint cans.

  He swallowed, forcing a chuckle.

  “Wind. It’s just the wind.”

  He tried to convince himself it was just the wind, but the fear continued to gnaw at him. He decided to leave. As he turned to go, he noticed something.

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  A faint, metallic scent in the air.

  He followed the scent, his footsteps echoing in the oppressive silence. And then, beneath the tang of metal and oil, he smelled it. Indistinguishable.

  Something metallic. Sickly sweet. Like blood.

  The scent was strongest near an old oil drum, half-hidden under a pile of discarded tires.

  It led him to what looked like, a rusty old cylindrical barrel. It was hidden from view, but seemed to have been there for long. A very long time indeed.

  His pulse quickened.

  Something in him whispered: Don’t look. Just leave.

  But he couldn’t.

  With a trembling hand, he shoved the tires aside. The drum was partially open, the lid slightly askew. Something pale pressed against the rim.

  His stomach lurched. He reached forward, gritting his teeth, and nudged the lid open, and inside the drum, nestled amongst oily rags, lay a hand.

  A human hand.

  The skin was pale and clammy, the fingernails long, blackened, curling like talons.

  A scream died in his throat. He choked as he tried gasping for air, like a frog was caught in his gullet. His vision blurred at the edges as panic sank its claws into him. Panic surged through him. He stumbled back, colliding with a shelf overflowing with paint cans. The cans tumbled to the floor, shattering into a thousand pieces.

  Suddenly, a low growl echoed from the darkest corner of the garage. Elias whirled around, his heart hammering against his ribs.

  Then—movement.

  As the acrid smell of turpentine filled the air, something indescribable emerged from the shadows.

  A figure, tall and gaunt, uncoiled from the shadows.

  It was unnaturally thin. Too thin to be human.

  It moved with an unnatural grace, its eyes burning with an eerie, malevolent light. Elias, paralyzed with terror, could only watch as the figure approached, its long, skeletal fingers reaching out towards him.

  The fluorescent light hummed, then flickered. For a second, Elias saw it clearly.

  Its eyes singed with an oily black gleam, its limbs too long, too sharp.

  And then—

  Caught In a Pickle

  Elias’s breath hitched as the figure loomed closer, its presence suffocating. The dim light flickered violently, casting warped shadows that twisted and convulsed along the walls. He tried to move—tried—but his body refused to obey, locked in a vice of sheer terror.

  The thing was neither fully solid nor entirely spectral. Its form flickered like a dying ember, fading in and out of existence, the edges of its body dissolving into darkness as though the shadows themselves were swallowing it.

  Then came the sound.

  Not a growl. Not a whisper. But something far worse.

  A wet, gurgling inhale—as if it were learning how to breathe.

  Elias gripped the rusted crowbar he’d snatched up in desperation, his knuckles white. If this thing was real, it could be hurt.

  With every ounce of strength, he swung.

  The metal cut through the air—and met nothing.

  The figure was gone.

  Only the scent of blood and turpentine remained, mingling in the suffocating air.

  Elias staggered back, his pulse a violent drumbeat in his ears. His chest rose and fell in ragged gasps as he frantically scanned the room. Had he imagined it? The mind played cruel tricks in the dark, twisting reality into nightmares.

  But as he turned to flee the garage, something stopped him cold.

  The air had changed.

  The storm outside had gone silent. Too silent.

  His breath clouded in front of him, the temperature plummeting in an instant.

  And then—he heard it.

  Not from the garage. Not from outside.

  From the house.

  A slow, deliberate creak of a door opening.

  Someone—something—was waiting inside.